Summary
Mare Barrow, street felon by day and wistful dancer by night, one day finds herself with a job at Manhattan's prestigious Calore Dance Academy, after a lousy pickpocket attempt on the academy's own Tiberias Calore.
Quickly, she jumps from being a low-level intern to one of the most elite dancers at the Academy through sheer luck and a fall from the stage rafters. As the seventeen-year-old climbs up the levels of social class, she dances a dangerous game of love and betrayal as lies are told and secrets are revealed. The gang Mare belongs to, The Scarlet Street Fighters, and filty-rich Calore clan are brutal enemies, and the girl, simple as the blood in her veins, is caught right in the middle. Mare soon discovers that the Calore family not only has a passion for dance and theater, but an obsession for power and money. And what better way to attain riches than with murder and backstabbing? As the young dancer soon discovers, it seems the Calores control everything.
Including her own life, if she allows it.
Part 1 — The Empire of the Dancers
Summertime in this part of the country brings humidity with it.
The soles of my worn-down shoes and I have learned it all too well, spending countless hours trekking the avenues of New York—Manhattan, specifically. I should be used to it by now, the sun that would bake my skin if I wasn't wearing SPF 50, the wafting and balmy heat, and the merciless sweat gathering sweat on my brows and under my arms. Yet each day I leave my apartment believing it ought to not bother me, I return in the evening as a sticky, smelly mess.
This morning the weathermen said the high for today is ninety-five degrees. With the sun having been up for hours, the day's far past any protection the heaping skyscrapers of the city can give it. All sun, no clouds or shadows. How it always is these days.
A shame I lent my bike to Kilorn for his commute downtown, past Midtown and deep into the Financial District. He took my offer readily, and I haven't seen my beaten-up, noisy bike since, something I'm a little pissed about. Though it's bound to break soon. My friend takes that piece of junk almost ten miles south, seven days a week to his swanky grill job, and he's been doing it since the beginning of summer. I bet it won't last through July.
Then I'll get my bike back. Or whatever's left of it.
I smile to myself and roll my eyes, entirely looking forward to what that conversation will look like.
My sister Gisa and I went our separate ways moments ago, as she headed for the fabric store a few blocks south. Her favorite day of the week: Wednesdays. Her boss sends Gee off with a few hundred bucks, entrusting her to use every penny to buy a half dozen bolts of fabric, colorful threads, and all the buttons, pins, and needles the shop might need. I have no doubt in my mind she doesn't filch a dollar of it.
Only to quell my guilt, I ask if she wants me with. I can't begin to imagine what Mom would say if she found out I was leaving my fifteen-year-old sister out on the streets alone, but Gisa just waves her hand and scampers off whenever I press her. It's not like I wasn't doing the same when I was her age.
And I can hardly blame her when I wouldn't want her trailing me. Around high-noon, judging by the sun and the growl rolling in my stomach. I'd call it quits for the day, if not for the rush of businessmen approaching the building I lean against.
The sun burns hard over my eyelashes, the material of the building hot against my back. Straight ahead rests the chaos of Times Square: flashy lights, cars, and a hell-lot of people.
Tucked into the crook of my elbow is an inconspicuous black hoodie. I hate to put it on . . . but it's for the best. Begrudgingly, before the walk sign appears, I draw it onto myself, hood and all, pulling the strings with one rough tug.
The men move slowly for my taste, in no rush and distracted amongst themselves. From my position across the street, they look older, maybe in their late thirties or early forties when I squint. Polished shoes, dark pants, blazers for the sake of etiquette and nothing more. They have to be dying out here, and I wonder why they're here in the first place. Deep into Times Square, these men are more than a little displaced, wearing their fancy clothes while every tourist to be seen dresses in shorts and light shirts. They're probably from some company or other a few blocks away and seek a change in scenery and a restaurant to talk business.
I let my neck drop towards my frayed shoelaces but keep my eyes up. A nearby stoplight turns from green to red, and a white walk sign switches on. While I wish they'd hurry up—I have places to be too—but their agonizing pace tells me what I need to know: they're relaxed, subdued by the heat. Lazy, unnoticing, and mindless.
They move closer and closer, preoccupied with their chatter, totally and utterly oblivious to the threat standing in plain sight, merely a forlorn teenager.
Or so they think.
Just as the barons cross the street opposite me, I replicate their movement with a push off my building towards the intersection. Keeping my head focused on the glimmering tar but my eyes elsewhere, my shoes pad along the freshly-painted crosswalk, and my hands stay slack against my legs.
A good part of my summer's been on this street and the ones like it. By that, I mean the ones bursting at the seams with well-off tourists and the occasional local businessman or entrepreneur. Even as I trudge down the crosswalk, I pass more shopping bags than people, who alone almost make me lose sight of the men. The tourists are the very reason I love this area of town; they're always so loud and noisy, bumping into one another and looking everywhere but at themselves.
I stick close to the right side of the walk, where the Feodora of the first businessman pokes up from the crowd.
Like a surgeon with hearts, my fingers are nimble and calm as I brush past the men, taking a quick glance into their pockets before fishing into them.
Delicate fingers barely touch the men, who've strung out into a line to navigate the torrent of people. Imperceptible, like a cool breeze wafting down the street. God knows we haven't had one of those in a while.
I clear the last of the clueless men and draw my scores into my pockets along with my hands, surprisingly relaxed. Ahead the walk sign turns into a warning red hand and a countdown, and I pick up my pace.
Tar becomes pavement again. I have a phone and a wallet when the stop sign changes to green. With any luck, the two men won't notice until they reach into their pockets to pay their luncheon bills.
My family knows damn well how I manage to throw money on the dinner table every night, though none of my siblings nor my parents argue over it anymore. My brothers Bree and Tramy never have, content to have some extra cash in the house, while Gisa rolls her eyes and scoffs her annoyingly beautiful face without fail each evening. Dad turns his head the other direction, willing to overlook what I do for the family if it means making some extra cash. As much as he hates himself for that shortcoming. Then there's Mom, who used to try and bicker with me for what could feel like hours on end, begging me to get a real and legitimate job at the grocery and deli downstairs.
Convenient as it would be, I'd never deign to ask Mister Whistle for a job at his pathetic store. After all, I already work for him in a sense, visiting his shop after long days to trade pickpocket scores in for money.
I continue walking away from the men, taking the adjacent crosswalk, but a lick of bitterness shivers across my spine. The worst part is that I don't resent what I do, considering myself more of a Robin Hood than a petty thief. I've never felt dirty or bad or awful, not even when I first started out, barely a teenager. On the streets, I target those who look wealthy or the tourists—if they could buy a plane ticket to New York, they're fine.
The rich men especially get a rise out of my sticky hands. Their jackets and satchels are too easy to steal from, and I can't convince myself otherwise.
I try my best to saunter across the street, to act like I have no reason to run, even as my feet itch to pick up the pace.
"Hey!" someone barks from behind me, over the regular buzz, and despite the blowing heat, the hairs on my arms rise.
For a mere second, I freeze but turn my head over my shoulder, still hooded. Two men—coincidence, I think not—hurtle through pedestrians twenty-five meters behind me. They're not going notably fast, partly because of their age, party because of the crowd, but . . .
I start into a sprint of my own, no time to make a wiser decision. I've played it off differently before, letting my targets catch me, bursting into fake tears, and getting away with it, but . . . not in Times Square.
Anyways: I'm already late for lunch with Kilorn.
It might be the middle of the workweek, but Forty-Fifth doesn't look like it. Congested traffic half-made up of obnoxious yellow taxis and tour buses plugs along the street to my right in a blur; it turns out walking in these parts gets you around faster than taking a car. The usual neon signs and ads anchored to buildings annoy me more than anything else, but they're not as bad as they are at night. The buildings themselves are sleek and modern, unadorned with those handy cracks and flaws I'm fond of. If this were a chase through my part of town, I'd have these fools doing circles around themselves in a matter of seconds.
With a solid hundred people on the last crosswalk, I'm met with hundreds more on the sidewalk running next to the street, and keeping my elbows out, I shove. The stream's so thick it might as well be another lane of traffic.
I run at a breakneck pace. Or at least try to, with all the people in my way, but no one says anything, only giving me exasperated looks and grunts. The locals are used to this sort of thing, and tourists are trying to follow along. It's the taxi drivers that are particularly mean, not the peds. But their state of oblivion doesn't help with pushing through their ranks, no easier than walking through water. "Excuse me," I grumble over and over mechanically, but it hardly suffices. I've realized that sometimes in New York—most of the time, actually—shoving is more effective.
There's a reprieve in the crowd, and I use it as an opportunity to glance backward, only to find one of the men, tall and skinny, closing the distance, while the other is probably trying to find a cop. I've stolen a wallet from one and a phone from the other. It'll take a lot to make them give up.
"Dang it," I say to myself while shouldering past a few more people. A quarter of a block down, the crowd thins at another intersection, and I zone in on it. My target and I have covered a pathetic amount of ground in the minute we've been struggling through this sea of people, which seems totally insane if you stop to think about it. Why would so many want to come to a place like this? It's busy and hectic and sweaty and . . . glamourous.
My arms ache more than my legs, the muscle toned from years worth of dancing, years worth of memories I don't think about often. The man behind me isn't overtly out of shape, but it's not difficult to guess he doesn't get his daily steps in. With a second look, he's slowed up, and the distance between us is swelling. Sitting behind a desk does that kind thing to you. Dancing for a decade . . . ending up in situations of these likes once a week . . . does something else entirely.
The point is, that I can run faster than anyone else on this block.
Grace, I didn't lose either, and I navigate the masses with comfort now as it's thinning. I swerve the corner left at the intersection, filled to the brim with scents my mouth waters at. Can't remember the last time I ate out. I don't complain, don't have a reason to complain about my mother's cooking when she does good with the resources she has. But she hasn't gone to culinary school and doesn't have a functional microwave.
Forget that. I don't have time to think about that right now.
The man that on my heels has dissolved into the crowd, though it doesn't take a genius to guess what's happening. He and his friend are going to try and cut me off, catch me off my guard using a different, faster route. Or the police.
Though these days, I'm never off my guard.
I push past people faster in an attempt to gain some speed as the intersection balloons closer. A red hand sign glowers and a countdown blinks, which happens to be a very small number.
Instead of turning the block and doing what they want, I dart out into traffic just as a green light turns in the opposite direction. My heart might skip a beat if I could say that I haven't done this before.
Cars skid to a halt before me, overused tires screeching on sunbaked tar, and crossed New Yorkers and taxi drivers honk, their horns blaring. I look up only for a moment to find a dozen faces scowling at me through car windshields, hands raised in obscene gestures, and windows rolled down so that I can hear the most creative curses this city has to offer.
Walkers from every direction turn their from their respective places at street corners to gawk at the girl in red, sprinting across a barren crosswalk. The horns are music to my ears, and the cringes of the people on the sidewalk I'm running towards tell me they feel no different.
It's not the first time I've been the cause of a little traffic pile up, either.
When I safely reach the other side of the wide street, I lose a breath. I avoided their trap, hopefully, cleaved a big enough distance between them and me. At the expense of my eardrums.
With a final look behind me, there are no yelling men nor red-in-the-face police officers. The cars, as if nothing happened, start up again, and windows are rolled up. With the exception of a few peds, most don't bother to look at me and continue on their previous paths.
Once more, I dissolve into the sea of New York City.
My fist collides with the door to Kilorn's apartment.
In a knock, of course. I'm not crazy.
But my friend might turn out to be.
After my little encounter in Times Square, I walked a couple of more blocks before hopping on the subway to take me south to Kilorn's ridiculous job. My family half-jokes that he had to blackmail some rich guy to get it. To be fair, it's not like he has a culinary degree—or experience in the kitchen—to help him level up in the restaurant's ranks. At the glorious age of eighteen, he's already found himself a dead-end job, not to mention totally out of the way.
For a moment though, I seriously believed Kilorn had dirt on his boss: as I looked up upon an imposing sight twenty stories tall, made of steel, glass, and fury.
He works in a freaking skyscraper, I realized. At the same time, I knew they didn't pay him anything to brag about, in spite of the fact that his fancy, great job is virtually the only thing Kilorn talks about these days.
Rather tentatively, I slipped through the restaurant's doors and asked the host for Kilorn. I was just planning on ordering a water and clutching my stomach until I got home, but . . .
The host gave me a sad look and told me that Kilorn wasn't there, much less employed anymore.
I didn't give her a second glance as I mutely turned on my heel.
So I ended up back here at my apartment, pounding on the door two floors below mine. An hour and a half of my perfectly good day wasted because Kilorn couldn't hold his job, though I have to wonder if he was fired or straight-up quit.
If I had known, I would've been more careful covering my tracks on my way down to the Financial District. Sloppy and fast, was what I was when I got on the first subway I could lay eyes on. I didn't bother shucking off my hoodie to change up my look, and I almost forgot to power off my stolen phone altogether. It was a mess, only agitated by the fact that I knew I was late and Kilorn's lunch break only lasted so long.
But now: Kilorn can take as long of a lunch break as he'd like. Every single day.
I sigh at myself and slap my palm at Kilorn's door again. He's not answering.
My annoyance is a bad thing, having simmered in my empty gut since I got out of that restaurant. He wasted my time today, valuable time during which I could've been out on the streets picking and choosing a few more people to steal from. On the other hand, I hardly know what happened, and if I had a phone and a plan, this whole situation could've been avoided, just like all the times I've lost track of Gisa in the city.
Though I make it seem like it is, the irritation and my mood don't really have Kilorn to blame. Or the phone.
It's just another instance of our lives. Kilorn's barely an adult, yet somehow, I can already see where he'll be in five, ten years. Maybe he'll have a girlfriend or a couple more friends, but he'll still be jumping between jobs and floundering to pay rent. Best case scenario, he's landed himself a steady, poor-paying job that'll set him up for life; still, whatever that job might be, it won't be enough to support a family. Not really.
Kilorn's job as a waiter was merely his first attempt of many to find that steady, poor-paying job. It was probably more of an experiment than anything, for him to find out how he'd fare in the bowels of the upper crust. On top of that, it gave him a reason to get out of East Harlem every day, even though I still think that nine miles is an insane distance to travel for a minimum wage job.
But people like Kilorn and I . . . we can't expect much more than minimum wage. Getting that job at all was a miracle on Kilorn's part.
The system's screwed up like that.
I raise my fist for the third time to the door. Skin and bone pound cheap wood in a rhythmic, non-aggressive pattern—on the off-chance Kilorn's gotten himself into trouble, I don't want to scare him—but to no avail does the door open, I turn my back on the door for the stairs.
Only to find the face I've been looking for all over the city.
"Wake up the neighbors while you're at it."
Kilorn Warren loiters on the landing of the staircase, a hand braced on the top of the railing. He carries nothing with him, no indication of where he just was. His tawny hair is neat enough, and his shoes are dirty as ever. He shoves his hands in his pockets, awaiting the lecture I have in store.
"I wasn't that loud," I return. "And the neighbors should be up already. It's mid-afternoon." My words are careful, not accusing. Not yet.
He shrugs but doesn't respond, instead walking right past me across the shaggy carpet to unlock his door. For however long ago he left downtown, Kilorn already changed into his typical attire of faded blue jeans and a white T-shirt. If it wasn't so damn hot outside, he'd have a black leather jacket on to complete his try-hard bad boy look. His lanky physique, soft face, and bright sea-green eyes ruin any chance he has of looking the slightest bit intimidating.
How could he be? I've known Kilorn since he was a little kid. We go back ten years, back to when he and his mom were new to the apartment. Mom and Dad are practically his parents, and he feels like a brother more than my actual ones. He'd follow me around all the time, having deemed I was the only kid in the neighborhood who he might have a shot of becoming friends with. He'd pick fistfights with me over the most stupid things, like who was the faster runner or who started the fights, ironically. Until he was about thirteen and Kilorn outgrew me, I won every one.
As much as I complain about him, Kilorn's my only real friend. Whenever we're not busy, we find excuses to hang out. When we were little, the two of us would make forts out of the cardboard boxes Will gave us from his shop and have cartwheel contests on the roof. Now, we watch movies, attempt and fail to oversell Will with pickpocket wares, and share the occasional rant over whatever.
Kilorn, smart enough to know I'm not planning on leaving him alone, leaves the door wide open to his apartment.
"Well? Did you get fired or did you quit?" I ask with no room for niceties. I don't bother entering his unnotable, shabby two-room apartment, smaller than mine with its one bedroom, a pullout couch, and a little kitchen area with a table for eating, content to lean against the doorframe. Without any fans, the space is steeped in stale humidity.
He plops down on the couch, which makes a nice creak in the process. Kilorn lives by himself, so the apartment is tasteless and barren, more empty space than anything else. The couch is the only place to sit besides for a few chairs.
"You'll be happy to hear I quit," he mutters, somewhat unwillingly.
"Good," I say quickly. Kilorn quitting rather than somebody firing him is a small consolation. At least he could stick it to his boss and have the last word—because it wouldn't have surprised me at all if he had been fired. High-end employers have a tendency to do that kind of thing, so I've been told.
The two of us stare at one another for awhile in opposition. I sink into the doorframe, making a joke of my usually-pristine posture, and Kilorn wrings his hands together and crosses his legs at the ankles. I don't enjoy these conversations any more than he does, but I can only hope he understands them. Kilorn hasn't had a steady mother in years. Or a father in even longer. I look out for him, try to make sure he doesn't go completely off the rails the way that my brother did. Even if he hates me for it, I'll keep needling him like this for as long as I know him, try to make sure . . . that he stays safe. On track of those rails.
He gives me an annoyed look as if to tell me that he knows exactly what I'm doing. But I hardly have anywhere to be for the rest of the day with lunch hour over and dinner upstairs in two hours. We've been friends for a long time, and Kilorn knows I can do this all day.
"Fine. You win." Kilorn sighs and bobs his head. "It's hardly interesting, though. "
I cross my arms and lean my head against the door. To silently tell him again, I'm not going anywhere.
Without another word, Kilorn breaks. "The whole thing was stupid. I was walking through the kitchen, and this bastard who's not looking where he's going runs into me."
"By 'bastard,' I assume you're referring to a highly trained cook?"
"Yeah. Unfortunately." His face contorts in memory, scowling as he looks at his shoes. Though each of us stays rooted to our spots, Kilorn on the couch and myself at the door, we're not so far away from one another, and I see how his fists clench and unclench. Trying to release some of that bitter anger. "The bastard had a pan of this fancy-ass tomato sauce in his hand and it got all over both of us.
"And I was about to say sorry, but then he started freaking out at me, telling me how I ruined his favorite cooking shirt and owed him a hundred-eighty bucks. Not my fault he wasn't wearing an apron."
"So what?" I raise my brows in expectation. "You walked out?"
Kilorn snorts. "Right after I took his pan and trashed the rest on his head."
Part of me wants to say that's it? Another wants to fall to the floor laughing. The third . . . the third just gives up her stubborn ways, pushes off from the threshold, and walks to take a seat on the couch.
"The last straw?" I ask. That's how it goes. He's probably thought about quitting for weeks, finally having decided his summer job is a waste of time for what he's getting out of it.
He nods. "Pretty much. You know I barely ever waited on people? Most of the time I was just cleaning tables, washing dishes, and taking out the trash. For all that time it takes to get downtown . . . nope, not worth it."
"I won't say I told you so, if it makes you feel better."
But my joke has little effect on him. Kilorn sighs again and slumps into the couch. His bushy eyebrows scrunch together, his foot incessantly taps against the floor, and somewhere within his eyes is a panic. Wondering what he'll do next, how he'll pay for his little apartment now that his mom's checks have stopped coming in the mail.
"What are you thinking?" I ask quietly.
"I need a real job, Mare," is all he says. The tapping sound his foot makes rings and rings. "A real job," he repeats.
"Okay," I shrug, up to the easy-enough challenge. "I'll take the day off, and we can go out tomorrow to start looking. Will probably has some ideas for—"
He cuts me off with the most contemptuous eye roll I've ever seen from him.
Taken aback, I trail off. Staring at him, I search for what to say, yet my tongue's leaden and my mouth's become dry. The look in his rolled eyes isn't a one of panic at all, but of vengeance and anger that I didn't see a moment ago. The seas in them tumble violently, full of a long-simmered wrath just now looking to find recompense.
Where was he before? Why was he gone from the apartment?
Those answers to those questions become very important to be, and I barely hold myself back from asking them.
"I don't care about paying for this stupid apartment so that I can keep on living my stupid life," he says cautiously. A bit of the vengeance fades from his eyes, and my friends takes on an air of seriousness. "I want to do something good for once, and I'm done serving Wall Street."
A million directions. A million directions I imagine this going.
"I'm going to enlist into the Scarlet Street Fighters," Kilorn says, and though he probably means to make it sounds harsh and unchangeable, it flops out unconvincingly, nearly a question.
Kilorn and I have been friends for a long, long while. He's practically family, living below us in the apartment. And whether or not either of us likes to admit it, we seek one another's approval.
My palms flatten against the couch cushions. I blink twice as if to clear the fog from my eyes, to see the world through a different lens, one that makes sense to me. I've heard tales—if they can be called that— rumors for sure, of what goes on in the Scarlet Street Fighter's domain. Nobody I know is involved with them, and what few things I do know about them has come from the local news and the busybodies of the apartment.
They target the rich and corrupt, but not with much success. More than a dozen have gone missing over the years and a few have gotten themselves killed. As far as I know, not a single one of their hits has been successful. "Kilorn—"
"No. You've spent enough time controlling me," Kilorn says, shaking his head. "I know what you're gonna say—"
"That you need to think about this. That it's been a long day. That joining a gang would be the worst decision of your life," I interject with wide eyes. Alcohol, sure; drugs, maybe; but a gang . . . I never thought Kilorn would be so stupid to fall prey to one. I reach out my hand to take him but in a hasty motion, he rises from the couch.
So do I, at my staggering height of five-two.
"What do you think I was doing out? Trying to calm down, convince myself that I'm an idiot. It didn't work. So I'm done." He turns his back to me and walks to the door, even as he continues his declaration. "I'm done looking up every morning at those skyscrapers by Central Park and by my restaurant. You know the guy who owns the restaurant is a millionaire, right? Well I'm done washing plates for him.
"At least the Street Fighters call out the rich and their shit. I don't care what you've heard about them. I'm joining."
Nevermind, I suppose. No interest in my approval, now.
He goes out the door, and I follow him out.
Kilorn probably thinks that it can't get worse, when his dad is gone, having died years ago to alcohol. His mom's barely in the picture, having left him when he was fifteen to go live on the road with some guy. She sends money once per month, enough to cover rent and food. He's alone in that tiny apartment, smaller than mine.
Living in East Harlem . . . can change you. The rich of the Upper East Side have never worn a pair of ripped jeans that wasn't a fashion statement or gone to bed feeling too hot or cold.
It makes you very, very angry.
So I sympathize with Kilorn. In a small way.
He skips every other step of the stairs, but I pump my legs to keep pace with him. He won't have the last word in this argument. "Come back here," I seethe, annoyed by how stupid he's being. Not stupid. Suicidal. "Let's talk about this. There are other ways—"
"It's the only way I can imagine I'll be able to make a difference in our lives. If I can't pay bills, I'll learn to fight," Kilorn says over his shoulder as he descends the last of the stairs and stalks to the exit.
"You? A warrior?" The words fall out of my mouth in a mean tone. He doesn't have it in him to fight or bring harm to other people, no matter how evil they are. Deep down, Kilorn's soft, and no leather jacket changes that. Not to mention that fighting in twenty-first-century Manhattan sounds like the plot of a twisted YA novel. "The universe is more likely to make me a pointe dancer again than your a warrior."
Deciding that I don't want to chase him through all of New York, I stop halfway down the stairs. I watch after him as he throws open the door with an excessive amount of testosterone. More than likely, he doesn't know where he's going, only that he desperately needs to get away from me.
I feel the money and my phone tucked inside of my pocket. This life is worth it for me, regardless of the constant peril I put myself in. I do it for the sake of my family.
Kilorn would be doing it in anger, to make himself feel not completely worthless. But he won't be worth much of anything if he's dead.
Not anything at all.